The 36th Atlantic Antic has been and gone.
Bus schedules and traffic had a bad day.
One mile of a Brooklyn artery closed to traffic.
The Frenchie and I started at Henry Street, the very top end of the festival, near the sardines (next post), and walked east, into the mouth of the beast, along with tens of thousands of people in the annual ooze up and down the Avenue...
Lots of music, and a lot of food.
Some of the food - and some of the music - was pretty good, but there was a lot of the more ordinary junk (food) that I swore just a few days ago would not be found here. So, it's changing...No sign of last year's Pizza Moto.
There was beer...
There were island pineapples.
A state senator...maybe his sign was for a rally in Chinatown? Arabic might have gone down better on this stretch of Atlantic.
And the thirsty for lemonade...
Morton's Steakhouse was selling sliders for $5. Not sure that ground beef and street fare were a wise combination, I passed...
A tap on my shoulder and there was Dwayne Cole, above left, whom I bump into on the street more often than anyone else I know. His Internet music station is monkey grip music cafe. But I have known him since 2000 from Al di La, where he is practically an institution. If you want to catch him, his shift is Wednesday through Saturday. On Dwayne's right is his son, Michael.
There were oodles and oodles of dogs. This was the only happy one. About to be fed.
Most of them looked like this. Tail seriously between legs. Dog: Too many &*%$;!^^$&*!@^** feet, man!
Below: But she needed that. Now.
There were beanies galore for babies.
And then I screeched to halt. This wide open, bright lace work hanging from a stall - skirts, shawls, pants...
I walked in and met two ladies, both sitting and eating grilled Mexican corn.
This is Sonia Walton, and she sells these gorgeous things. I am going to write more about her.
Did I not promise just three days ago that NO Italian Sausage stands would be here? Oops.
Above - making zeppole at the sausage stand. Little balls of batter, deep fried. He whirled like a dervish. Dropping them into boiling oil. And they sold like, er...hot cakes.
This ensemble gave me a nostalgic flashback to The Wire, peerless amongst television series. Totally Avon Barksdale.
And by mid afternoon, a trashcan , overwhelmed.